


Start to Make It Better

by elizaye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Castiel in the Bunker, Christmas, Fluff, Gift Fic, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Post Season 8, Season 9 never happened, TFW Secret Santa 2013, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Winchesters stop the trials and the angels fall, Sam, Dean, and Castiel settle down in the bunker and try to recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start to Make It Better

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [TFW Secret Santa art/fic exchange](http://tfwsecretsanta.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. My recipient was [slytherinwholocker](http://slytherinwholocker.tumblr.com/), and the prompts she provided were as follows:
> 
> 1\. Dean and Cas telling Sam they’re dating.  
> 2\. Dean showing Cas that being human can be nice (through sex/touch)  
> 3\. Sam noticing subtle changes in Dean and realizing it’s Cas.
> 
> I combined the three into a single fic because they seemed to fit well together. Happy reading!

For as long as Sam can remember, Dean’s been taking care of him.

Whenever Sam got sick, it was Dean who went out for medicine and made soup for him—canned, sure, but it was still soup. Whenever Sam came back from school with a report card, Dean was the one who forged Dad’s signature and praised Sam for his good grades. When Dad got back from whatever hunt he’d been on, he’d tell Sam that he was proud of him, but he never had a good word for Dean.

“Dude, why aren’t you eating?” Dean asks through a mouthful of food.

Sam blinks and looks back down at the stew in front of him. “Oh. Uh. Nothing,” he says, and yeah, fantastic, _that’s_ convincing.

Sure enough, Dean’s brows pull together, and the corners of his lips turn down into a frown. “You okay?” he asks. He’s been asking ever since the angels fell, ever since they got back to the bunker.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam answers, grabbing the spoon and digging in. It’s much better than it looks, the chunks of meat chewy and tender, savory flavor exploding over his tongue with each chew. “This is really good,” he adds after swallowing.

“I know, right?” Dean says, grinning, but Sam knows that his brother is still focused on his well-being.

Sam really is fine. Kevin found some information about the demon tablet that was written on the angel tablet—Metatron’s apparently a bitch like that. The trials weren’t actually _purifying_ Sam; the pain that Sam had mistaken for purification had just been preparation for him to be sacrificed in order to close the gates. Along with that tidbit of information had been a spell, this one for reversing the path to sacrifice. _You’ll truly be purified_ , Kevin had said, passing a piece of paper over to Sam.

It hadn’t made much sense at first. There were a few lines of what looked like gibberish—Kevin said that it was the closest approximation he could come up with for what Sam had to say. He had to read it aloud twice a day, once at sunrise and once more at sunset, for “as long as it took.”

 _What the hell does that mean?_ Dean had demanded, furiously snatching the piece of paper away.

But Sam _is_ feeling better. The skull-splitting headaches have reduced in intensity and frequency, and he hasn’t fainted in… well, in over a month. Since before Cas got back. Repeating a few lines of gibberish is easy enough, but god, sometimes he thinks it might have been better if he’d just died. He wouldn’t be in any pain at all, and demons would have no way to walk the earth anymore.

Dean would never let him go like that, though. His sense of self-worth is based almost entirely on being needed, on taking care of others—of _Sam_. Without Sam… Sam really doesn’t know what would happen to him. It’s utterly heartbreaking, and Sam wishes he could—could _fix_ Dean, for lack of a better word.

But there’s no undoing so many years of conditioning, thirty-some years of _look after your brother_ , of _take care of Sammy_.

Sam makes sure to keep eating, studiously avoiding Dean’s eyes, because he’s really tired of the constant concern that he finds there, but he doesn’t have it in him to tell Dean to _stop_. What would that do to them? To Dean?

A set of slow, shuffling footsteps precede Cas’s arrival, and Sam looks over at him, grateful for the new presence in the room. Cas looks tired, face still as gaunt as it’d been when he’d arrived, bags under his eyes as dark as ever. Sam wonders how many hours a night he’s sleeping.

“I fell asleep,” Cas says gruffly, falling into the seat across from Sam.

Dean’s immediately on his feet, heading for the kitchen. “Let me grab you something to eat,” he offers.

Cas tips his head back, eyes closed, and Sam frowns at him.

“You could have kept sleeping,” Sam says. “Dean would totally reheat food for you.”

Cas sighs. “I’m not hungry. Kevin said he was hungry. I came to get food for him,” he says as though he’s only just remembered. “I should tell Dean.”

“Yeah, probably,” Sam says with a small smile that he hopes his encouraging.

“Excuse me,” Cas says, getting to his feet and drifting out of the room.

Sam goes back to eating his food, but his mind lingers on Cas.

The fallen angel seems to have adjusted to human life okay, except for sleeping. No matter what time Sam gets up, it seems Cas is already awake, whether he’s in the library with a book or sitting at what they’ve been calling the dinner table, just staring into space. Sam doesn’t think he’s actually _seen_ Cas sleeping since he got to the bunker, though he supposedly knocks out at times when he’s working on translations with Kevin.

A few minutes later, Cas passes through the room without pausing, one bowl in each hand. Dean returns to his seat at the head of the table, and Sam just knows that Dean is looking at him with that pinched look on his face, skeptical about whether or not he’s eating all right.

“Is Cas okay?” Sam asks, trying to redirect Dean’s attention.

Dean sighs. “Yeah… no. I don’t think so.”

“We oughta help him,” Sam says. “I just… I don’t think I’d even know where to begin.”

“Yeah. I figure sleeping pills aren’t really the best way to cure insomnia. But how the hell do you teach someone how to _sleep?_ ” Dean says. He’s glaring down at his soup, and it seems like this is something he’s been thinking about for a while.

“Maybe he just needs some more time to figure things out,” Sam says.

“It’s been more than a month, Sam. Pretty sure he’s got the whole ‘being human’ deal worked out,” Dean points out.

“Well, he used to be attached to something on a way more intimate level than we are. I mean, sure, he turned off angel radio toward the end, but he was always attached to the other angels, y’know? I can’t imagine what he feels now, all alone in that head,” Sam says, thinking out loud.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, frowning. “It’s not like any of us could take their place, though.”

“Well no, but… I don’t know. Maybe it’d be better for him if he could talk it out with someone, find a way to connect,” Sam says, looking over at Dean pointedly.

Turns out he doesn’t even have to hint, though—Dean’s already nodding and continuing to eat. “I’ll talk to him later,” he volunteers.

Sam’s just glad that Dean has someone else to spend his worry on.

* * *

“I understand that physical activity is good, Dean. But there is no point to this.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas, understanding a concept isn’t the same as knowing how it feels. You say you know that it’s a good thing, so you should try it. It’ll make you feel better, I swear.”

“Why would it—”

“Don’t question—just, simple pleasures, Cas. Now, hit me.”

“How does getting into a fight with you qualify as a simple pleasure?” Cas asks, frowning. “I understand the Romans had their gladiators fight for entertainment. Modern boxing and wrestling appears to serve the same purpose. But those are performances for spectators, and we have no audience, Dean.”

Dean hangs his head for a second before looking back at Cas. He should’ve known this wouldn’t go as smoothly as he’d imagined. “You want me to call Sam and Kevin over?”

“You did not answer my question.”

“Look, Cas, just hit me, okay? You’ve been wound up for weeks. You need to decompress a little.”

“I fail to see how hitting you will help me ‘decompress,’” Cas says, throwing up air quotes around the last word.

“Jesus,” Dean sighs before stepping forward and giving Cas a quick shove.

“Dean,” Cas says, backing up a step. Dean just pushes at his shoulder again, and Cas frowns, a note of warning entering his voice. “ _Dean_.”

“What? You gonna just let me push you like that?”

Cas shakes his head. “I will not let you goad me into a fight, Dean,” he says before turning his back and stalking from the room.

“Hey, wait—Cas!” Dean shouts, but Cas’s footsteps are already fading. “Yeah, okay,” he says to the empty room. “Bad idea.”

* * *

He catches up with Cas sometime after dinner, in the lounge with a crusty, old book propped open in his lap. When he sees Dean, he tenses visibly, and damn it, that’s not the reaction Dean wanted him to have after their session earlier today. Then again, if Cas had just freakin’ _cooperated_ —

No, Dean’s here to help him. Getting frustrated won’t help.

The guy had turned up on their doorstep just over a month ago, covered in cuts and scrapes and bruises that he’d explained away as “an accident.” It had taken a couple days for Sam and Dean to get to the truth—he’d run into a fallen angel, and she’d tried to possess him. Cas had crashed their car to get away from her.

Apparently, he’d also found out from said angel that all the other fallen angels were out for his neck, so he’d marked himself up with a cloaking sigil and gotten to the bunker as fast as possible.

It’s totally understandable that he’s stressed out and having a hard time sleeping, but staying that way isn’t good for him, and if Dean wants to fix that, he’s gonna have to use a different approach.

“Hey, Cas,” he says. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Cas eyes him warily. “I’ve hurt enough people,” he says.

“We wouldn’t have—never mind,” Dean says, cutting himself off because he can get into wrestling as a leisure activity later. “I guess I should’ve explained it better before just pushing it on you like that,” he concedes. “But there are other ways of relieving stress, if you’re up for it.”

The wariness in Cas’s eyes only increases. “What other ways?”

“Well, if you’re so opposed to fighting, we could go for a run, or listen to some music, or watch TV, maybe?” Dean suggests.

“I don’t think it is wise for me to leave the bunker,” Cas says, turning his attention back to his book, “you have a taste in music that is not at all relaxing to me, and I have watched enough television in the past few weeks. I’d rather read.”

Frowning, Dean crosses the lounge to stand behind Cas and get a look at what he’s reading. “Dude, what language is that?”

“It is an old variant of Chinese used in the early Zhou Dynasty,” Cas replies readily.

“Right, because I’m gonna know when that was,” Dean says.

“The Zhou Dynasty started a little over three thousand years ago,” Cas says, turning a page. “This is a collection of old poems.”

“Yeah, because _those_ are relaxing. C’mon, Cas, let’s do something a normal human being would do.”

“I am hardly a _normal_ human being,” Cas says stiffly.

Dean rests his hands on Cas’s shoulders, and Cas goes still.

He’s always been like this, Dean thinks absently—always been stiff and awkward, stilted and uncomfortable with human contact. There’d been a few firm, reassuring shoulder touches between them, a _very_ strange hug from a Cas who wasn’t quite Cas, and a second hug that Dean gave—one that wasn’t reciprocated. Apart from that, Dean can’t really imagine touching him.

Hasn’t _allowed_ himself to imagine.

But he can’t control what he dreams, and on more than one occasion, he’s woken up hard, thoughts of having Cas underneath him, pliant and needy, still fresh in his mind.

“Dean?”

Cas’s voice is quiet, questioning, and Dean pulls himself out of his thoughts before he can get carried away, because thinking about Cas, naked and panting under Dean—right, there’s a reason why he decided _not_ to think about that.

“You’re really tense,” Dean says, lightly digging his thumbs into the cords of muscle near the back of Cas’s neck. “What do you say to a massage?”

“What would that entail?” Cas asks, letting his head drop forward just a bit when Dean pushes again, a little harder this time.

“Just a little more of this,” Dean says, moving his hands to work Cas’s shoulders. He feels gratified when a soft sound slips from between Cas’s lips, something between a moan and a sigh. “Maybe we’ll go someplace more comfortable, but I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

God, it sounds way too much like something he’d say to coax a girl into bed, and Dean’s already thinking of ways to fix it when he hears a book snapping shut.

So instead of apologizing, Dean stills his hands and asks, “Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, slipping out from under Dean’s hands and getting to his feet. “Where will we go?”

“My room,” Dean says reflexively. “If you’re okay with that.”

Cas just sets the book down in his seat and nods, so Dean leads the way out of the lounge.

* * *

Castiel enters Dean’s room slowly. He hasn’t ever come inside before, though he _has_ seen the interior from the doorway.

Walking inside feels almost as though he’s intruding on Dean’s privacy. Strange, how that’s such a concern to him now. There was a time not so long ago when he thought nothing of standing right next to Dean, unseen by him, _spying_ on him.

Castiel feels almost like he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be allowed inside the space that Dean has made his own. Looking around, he sees guns mounted on the walls, the familiar axe that seldom left Dean’s hands in Purgatory. A typewriter sits on the bedside table, and Castiel wonders whether or not Dean actually uses it.

“Cas. You okay?”

“Yes, I’m… fine,” Castiel responds. Dean is facing him, standing by his dresser with a bottle of what looks like lotion in his hand. He’s frowning a little, but Castiel just wants to see him smile. “How are we going to do this?” Castiel asks.

“Well, first you’re gonna take your clothes off, and then I’m gonna help you relax.”

Castiel’s hands go to the hem of his shirt—and it _is_ his shirt, because Sam and Dean went to the store and picked out some clothing for him a few days after his return—but he hesitates, eyes resting on Dean uncertainly.

This sort of exposure would have meant nothing to him before, but now, he feels uncomfortable, embarrassed, because regardless of his actual strength, it is a fact that he is smaller than Sam and Dean are. The size of his vessel hadn’t mattered before because he knew that his true size was… boundless, but now, now he _is_ his vessel, and it’s utterly disconcerting.

Dean seems surprised by what he sees when he meets Castiel’s eyes, and he says, “You don’t have to strip down all the way. Just—lose the shirt. Trust me; it’ll be better that way.”

Trust.

That’s what Dean has always wanted from Castiel, isn’t it? Castiel’s choice not to tell Dean when he dealt with Crowley, his inability to tell Dean about Naomi’s control over him, his decision to leave with the angel tablet… Dean had taken it all as proof of Castiel’s inability to trust him.

Yet Castiel cannot imagine any being in creation that he trusts more than Dean Winchester.

He lifts the shirt up and over his head, draping it over the back of the chair in front of the desk, and looks over to Dean for further instruction.

“Uh, bed,” Dean says, motioning for Castiel to lie down. “On your stomach.”

Castiel nods and gets onto the bed, only a little apprehensive. Dean tells him to scoot up, slipping one hand beneath Castiel’s shoulder to shove a pillow beneath his neck and chest. Castiel lets his hands come forward so that he can rest his chin on them, but Dean swats at them and places a rolled-up wad of cloth—most likely a shirt, judging from the material and the bit of a logo that is visible—on the bed in front of him.

“Rest your forehead here,” Dean says. “If it’s too low, let me know.”

Castiel complies, lowering his forehead to the cloth, and finds that all he can see is the white sheet below him. He closes his eyes and allows Dean to pull his arms back down to his sides. Seemingly satisfied, Dean moves away for a moment. The bed dips to Castiel’s right and then again to his left. Dean’s weight settles over the backs of his thighs, and he can’t help but tense up.

“Relax,” Dean says, a hand resting firmly between Castiel’s shoulder blades.

“That is easier said than done, Dean.”

“Just try, then.”

Castiel nods and takes a deep breath, eyes still closed. Dean’s hand leaves his back, and there’s a snapping sound—the bottle opening, Castiel deduces—followed by the sound of skin against skin.

Then Dean’s hands land on Castiel’s back, warm and slick with oil. He digs his thumbs in between Castiel’s shoulder blades, and the pressure feels—good. Surprisingly good. Dean’s hands slide upward until his fingers can curl around the tops of Castiel’s shoulders, and then he starts squeezing, pressing, rolling the heel of his palm against Castiel’s shoulders in a slow, entrancing rhythm.

Castiel can feel his flesh yielding under Dean’s touch, can feel the tension draining from him, and marvels in the change—is it really so simple? It seems impossible, illogical, that a few slow, measured touches can ease his worries, his constant anxiety, yet Castiel cannot deny that he feels lighter than he did mere minutes ago.

Dean has lifted a weight from his shoulders, a weight Castiel had hardly even been aware he was carrying.

“There you go,” Dean mutters, almost too quiet for Castiel to hear. His hands are trailing farther down Castiel’s back now, still maintaining a steady, unhurried pace, and when he speaks again, his voice seems closer. “Isn’t that better?”

Castiel means to respond in the affirmative, but all that comes from his lips is a quiet, “Mm.”

Dean’s hands suddenly lift away, and Castiel feels bereft, tensing up almost instantly.

“Hey,” Dean says, placing a steadying hand at the small of Castiel’s back, “I’m not leaving you hanging. Just getting a little more oil.”

His hands return a moment later, working down from the middle of his back, and a contented sigh slips from between Castiel’s lips, unbidden. Castiel doesn’t know how long he lies there, losing himself in the hypnotic movements of Dean’s hands, but it’s a type of bliss he has never known before, a sort of freedom from himself.

He shifts a little when his legs start tingling, and Dean suddenly goes still above him, hands stopping. Frowning, Castiel repeats the motion, pressing upward with his hips and meeting something decidedly hard at Dean’s groin.

Dean makes a strangled sound. “Wait, Cas—” Dean tries, voice hoarse, and he is—he is _aroused_ , Castiel realizes. “Just—hold still.”

But Castiel is intrigued, likes the roughness of Dean’s voice and the shivery-hot feeling that’s building at the pit of his stomach, and deliberately rolls his hips once, grinding up against Dean.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, hands going to Castiel’s waist and holding him in place. “Don’t _do_ that.”

“Why not? You seem to like it enough,” Castiel says.

Dean huffs and starts shifting like he intends to get off, so Castiel reaches for him, grasping at his thighs, fingers scrabbling to wrap around the backs of his knees.

“Damn it, Cas,” Dean says, hovering somewhere above Castiel, his weight absent from Castiel’s thighs.

Castiel flips himself over and finds a surprisingly attractive flush across Dean’s cheeks and extending down his neck, possibly below the neckline of his shirt. Dean’s eyes are narrowed, alert, and Castiel brings one hand up toward his jaw, pausing just shy of contact.

“Dean…” he murmurs, wanting to slide his fingers along the hard line of Dean’s jaw, past his ear and into his hair, but unsure how to go about it—whether or not he’s even allowed.

They both hold still for a long moment, and in the quiet room, Castiel notices that sometime along the way, his breathing and Dean’s became synchronized, each inhale and exhale coming at the same time. There’s something new in Dean’s gaze—or maybe it’s always been there, but Castiel has never been capable of seeing it before. He doesn’t know.

Finally, Dean tips his head down and toward the side slightly, pressing his jaw into Castiel’s hand, and Castiel has a moment of disconnect during which it almost feels as though the hand that is touching Dean’s face isn’t actually connected to his body.

The strange sensation passes quickly, and then Dean’s leaning forward, closer, and Castiel’s eyes flutter closed, an instinctive reaction. It feels as though there are a hundred, a thousand, a million thoughts racing through his mind. This can’t be real—how can it possibly be real? Castiel never knew he wanted Dean in this way, yet it seems as though he’s always known. There’s always been this, this _pull_ , some sort of gravity that Dean alone exerts on Castiel. Maybe he’s wanted the man ever since he first saw his soul working at the racks of Hell.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, and Castiel feels his breath on his lips.

He starts to respond, but Dean’s mouth presses against his, blocking the words from coming out. Castiel tries to draw breath, startled, and clasps Dean’s shoulders, letting his hands slide up to cup Dean’s face. Dean’s hands mimic the positions of his own, and Castiel notes abstractly that they’re still slightly slick with oil from the massage.

But his mind has quieted, gone blissfully silent, because his questions and doubts don’t matter.

He wants this. Dean wants this. That’s all that matters.

Dean starts to pull back, but Castiel can’t allow it, follows Dean’s lips and finally starts to move his own, attempting to mimic the light pulling motions Dean had been using on him.

“No—no, wait,” Dean says, backing away, and Castiel is surprised by the acute sense of loss in his chest, akin to yet entirely different from the hole left behind by his missing Grace. He quickly decides that he dislikes it just as much. “You’re still—y’know, getting better. We oughta take this slow.”

No, Castiel wants to protest. No, he wants Dean, wants everything he can possibly have with Dean. But he nods, conceding not because Dean is right, but because he wants to prove that he trusts Dean.

“Okay,” Dean says, sounding a little relieved. He presses his lips to Castiel’s again, brief and chaste.

“I trust you,” Castiel says softly, and the look on Dean’s face shows that Castiel caught him by surprise, proves that Dean really needed to hear him say it.

“Okay,” he repeats, quieter this time, lips curving upward into something close to a smile. “Okay, good.”

One more quick kiss, and then Dean clears his throat and climbs off the bed, grabbing the lotion and placing it on top of his dresser. Castiel stretches his arms out to either side before bringing them up over his head and reaching as high as he can, and he really does feel much more relaxed now, loose and comfortable.

When he turns toward Dean, he sees that the hunter’s pupils are dilated, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed on Castiel’s torso. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, breaking the spell.

“Yeah, no problem,” Dean says gruffly, rapidly turning back to face the dresser.

Castiel smiles and makes his exit, picking up his shirt on the way out.

* * *

Sam recites the strange string of syllables, watching the sun disappear beyond the horizon as he does so. He doesn’t need the paper anymore—he’s got it all memorized now.

It’s reassuring, going out to see the sun rise and set every day. Kinda therapeutic on its own, even without the little purification spell that Sam’s got going on.

“Is that helping?” Dean asks from behind him when he finishes, and Sam nearly jumps, startled.

“Yeah, it is,” Sam answers, glancing over when Dean comes to stand next to him. “Cas looked a little better today,” he says. “I’m guessing it went okay with him.”

“What went okay?” Dean asks, staring at Sam with eyes that are slightly wider than usual.

“Uh. Your talk? You were gonna talk to him?” Sam supplies, squinting suspiciously at his brother.

“Right, that. Yeah, it was fine,” Dean says, turning to look back at the horizon again. Sam watches him for an extra moment before returning his attention to the view, letting him off the hook—for now. The sky’s getting dark now that the sun is out of sight, pinks and purples fading into dark blue.

They stand in companionable silence for a while, and Sam wonders when they last stood like this, doing nothing else. They’ve been together a whole lot over the past couple years, but there were always things to be worrying about—the trials, the Leviathans, Cas gone nuclear, the apocalypse, the goddamn _yellow-eyed demon_ , even—and they’ve never really had the time or the inclination to just stand together like this, shoulder to shoulder, just because they can.

Another look over at Dean finds him with his jaw clenched, and Sam might only be able to see his profile, but he knows that his brother’s wearing a pinched look on his face right now. So Dean’s not with Sam right now after all, not really. Not yet.

“I really am gonna be fine, you know,” Sam says. “You don’t have to worry ‘bout me. I trust Kevin. And besides, the spell is working. I haven’t had anything worse than a migraine for the past week or so.”

Dean looks down with a small, sad smile. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

“Dude, I’m serious,” Sam says, turning to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I got it,” Dean says. He looks up then, but his eyes slide away from Sam quickly, darting around their surroundings, and he says, “We should go back in. Sun’s down already.”

Sam just nods and follows him in, because right—Dean won’t just change the way he thinks about Sam overnight, after one stunted conversation under a setting sun.

* * *

Dean really doesn’t know what the hell he can do about Cas. The guy seemed a little better the day after the massage, the dark circles under his eyes fading out some. He’d even looked like he was holding himself differently, a whole lot more relaxed.

But that was a week ago, and Cas is right back to the way he was before the massage. They haven’t kissed since that one time—Dean’s still working through that, because it’s a bit much to suddenly have his fantasies come to life, especially when he’d never expected them to.

Cas is eating less than any of the other inhabitants in the bunker—Dean knows this because he’s the one stuck doing the cooking _and_ the dishes, which is ridiculously unfair, by the way, and he intends to lodge a complaint as soon as Cas gets properly adjusted and Sam’s a hundred percent and Kevin’s not so engrossed in tablet work.

Okay, so he’ll probably be stuck doing the dishes for the foreseeable future.

But back on track—Dean can’t figure out how to help Cas. He’s been working on translations, and Kevin’s said that he’s been helpful, so Cas shouldn’t be dealing with feelings of uselessness. Cas hasn’t had any of the issues that Dean had expected—ones along the lines of figuring out bodily functions or how to work machines or how to spend his time—and even if he _had_ had those issues, he would have figured it all out by now, seeing as it’s been almost a month and a half since he turned up.

Maybe it’s what Sam said. Maybe Cas feels lost because he isn’t connected to the Host anymore. As much as Dean dislikes those feathery—well, maybe not so feathery anymore—dicks, they were still Cas’s family for the majority of his existence.

Sighing, Dean flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling of his room. How does one even _begin_ to psychoanalyze a freaking ex-angel of the lord?

Three sharp knocks interrupt him before he can even begin thinking of ideas, and he says, “Yeah?”

“It’s me.”

Cas. Dean sits up immediately, the blanket sliding off his torso. “Come in,” he says, briefly looking around for his shirt before deciding that it doesn’t matter. It’s not as though Cas doesn’t already know every goddamn molecule in Dean’s body.

The door opens, and Cas takes a few tentative steps into the room, closing the door behind him. It’s dim because Dean shut off the light maybe twenty minutes ago, only the small desk lamp lighting the room. It’s hard to make out Cas’s features when he’s standing so far away, so Dean gestures for him to come closer.

“You need anything?”

Cas shakes his head and sits down on the edge of Dean’s bed, hands clasped in his lap.

When he says nothing, Dean reaches out and touches his shoulder, unsure what to say. He pulls lightly, reaching around to get at Cas’s other shoulder. It doesn’t take much coaxing to get Cas to face him, and it’s obvious from the sudden slump in Cas’s whole posture that he’s been wound up for far too long.

Maybe the massages need to become a regular thing.

Cas shifts closer to Dean, twisting to press his forehead into Dean’s shoulder, but the tension doesn’t drain from his frame until Dean runs a hand up and down his back to let him know it’s okay.

“I miss your prayers,” Cas confesses out of the blue, words mumbled into Dean’s skin, and Dean has no clue what the correct response is to that. “It’s—different. Different from hearing you speak aloud. You’d pray to me, and I’d feel a—a pull, toward you.”

Cas’s voice is raw, like the words are scraping his throat with their honesty, and Dean just tugs him closer, pulling Cas in until their upper bodies are pressed together as much as they can be in this position. But it’s not enough, and Dean backs up slightly, jerking at the covers under Cas. Cas gets out of the way, and Dean lifts the covers, scooting over to make room for Cas to crawl in with him.

Dean settles back against the wall, pillow propped up for his back, and Cas just turns kinda sideways and leans into him, one shoulder tucked under Dean’s arm so that he can rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. It’s quiet for a long moment, and Dean lets his arm rest across Cas’s shoulders.

“After I got outta Purgatory, when you were still there, did you ever hear me praying?” Dean asks. Cas shakes his head, and Dean says, “Y’know, there were some nights when I uh, when I forgot that I’d gotten out. I’d be sitting in a motel, doing… whatever, and then suddenly I’d be back there. Sometimes I got dropped into mid-battle, but other times I uh.” He pauses, licking his lips, before continuing, “Other times, I forgot where I was and just prayed to you.”

Cas asks, softly, “What did you say?”

“Just the standard,” Dean says, suddenly unable to repeat his prayers—

_Come on, Cas. Where the hell are you?_

_I need you._

_I’ll find you. Hang in there. If you can hear me, just—stay alive. I’ll find you._

_Please, Cas, just come back._

“I’ll never be able to hear them again,” Cas says, subdued.

Dean teeters on the verge of commiserating with him, but god, Cas doesn’t need that right now. So he says, “Well hey, at least we’re on even footing now. I couldn’t ever hear your prayers or your thoughts—had to figure you out the hard way.”

Cas sits up straight, regarding Dean seriously. “And have you… figured me out?” he asks.

“Not even close,” Dean responds before leaning forward to press a quick, impulsive kiss to Cas’s lips. When he backs up, there’s a slightly stunned expression on Cas’s face, and his cheeks have turned a tiny bit pinker than usual. Grinning, Dean says, “That helped a bit.”

Cas smiles—it’s not exactly a wide, perfectly happy smile, but Dean will take what he can get. He pulls Cas in, and this time, when their mouths meet, Cas is ready, mouth pliant and open and trusting under Dean’s.

They kiss until they’re out of breath and then some, breaking apart when Dean’s almost starting to get dizzy, and Jesus Christ, he doesn’t think he’s been so turned on just by making out since he was a freakin’ _teenager_. Fuck, but Cas looks amazing like this, mouth kiss-swollen and slick with spit, eyes wide, hair sticking up all over the place because Dean’s utterly unable to keep his hands to himself.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters when Cas kicks the covers off and moves to straddle his lap.

“I want you,” Cas says, quiet but firm. “I want to—to _feel_ something.”

Oh, that doesn’t sound healthy, Dean thinks. “Cas, I don’t know if that’s—”

“Dean, if you don’t want me, just—”

“That’s not the problem,” Dean protests immediately, and it’s kinda ridiculous that Cas could even _think_ that, given that Dean’s dick is already half-hard and all they’ve been doing is freaking _kissing_.

“Then— _please_ ,” Cas says, plaintive.

Dean swallows hard. “What do you want from me?”

It takes a moment for Cas to respond, and Dean thinks he very well might be _dying_ , but finally Cas decides, “Hands. I want your hands on me.”

“Okay,” Dean says. Hands he can do.

He kisses Cas, trying to distract him, and starts working his shirt off. They have to break apart to get the shirt over Cas’s head, but it’s totally worth it because it means the glorious slide of skin on skin, Cas squirming closer to press them together from hips to chest. And god, now Dean can feel how hard Cas is in his sweatpants, pressed flush against Dean. He dips his fingers under the waistband, but the angle is kind of awkward, and no matter how much experience he’s got with himself, Dean really doesn’t know how to not feel awkward about jerking somebody else off.

Cas pulls back, looking at Dean with concern, and shit, Dean really wasn’t keeping up with that kiss. “Are you all right with this?” Cas asks. “I understand that your normal preferences—”

“No,” Dean says to stop Cas from talking, but at the flash of hurt on Cas’s face, he realizes what Cas just asked and says, “No, wait—I meant yes. I’m good with this—fuck, I want this. I’m just figuring out the uh, the logistics.”

Cas blinks. “Logistics,” he repeats skeptically.

Dean nods decisively, meeting Cas’s eyes to hopefully convey that he’s serious—if he’s really gonna do this, he’s gonna commit. “Get off me,” he says. He expects to be questioned, so he’s surprised when Cas only pauses for a split second before shuffling to the side. Dean spreads his legs and gestures for Cas to come back, arranging him so that Cas’s back is against his chest—this’ll give him a more familiar angle to work with.

“Dean—” Cas starts, but he stops talking when Dean’s hands come around to rest low on his flat abdomen, trailing up and down in small motions.

“Yeah?” Dean murmurs against the back of Cas’s ear, and the full-body shudder that goes through Cas is immensely satisfying.

But it seems like Cas has forgotten what he was gonna say, because he just presses back against Dean, head falling back onto Dean’s shoulder. It’s easy to shove a hand down Cas’s pants, and maybe Dean should be surprised that the guy’s going commando, but somehow it isn’t surprising at all.

Dean wraps his hand around the base of Cas’s dick and strokes once up and down along the shaft, finds Cas already fully hard and leaking a little from the tip. Cas is definitely narrower than Dean, though he might be a little longer, Dean notices. His hips shift restlessly, shoving up into the ring of Dean’s fingers, and this—this isn’t so weird after all. Dean had been writing off his fantasies as impossible, so it’d been easier to just repress and deny than to try and puzzle them out, but now, now Cas is here, hard and hot in Dean’s hand, and it’s—fuck, it’s _good_.

Dean brings his free hand up to tweak one of Cas’s nipples and is rewarded with a startled yelp and a harder jerk of his hips. “Good?” Dean asks.

Cas nods once, quickly, before reaching for the waistband of his sweats, shoving them down past the curve of his ass until they’re at his knees. He kicks them off the rest of the way, and when Dean looks down, he gets the delicious sight of Cas, lean and muscled and stretched out, molded to the shape of Dean’s body. He traces the curves of the cloaking sigil inked into Cas’s hip and wants more than anything to lick it, to follow the path of his fingers with his tongue. Maybe another time, if they _have_ another time.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, rubbing his palm over the fat head of Cas’s cock and dragging it down to spread his precome down the side. “You’re perfect,” he says before he can think better of it.

Cas stiffens a little, fingers digging into Dean’s clothed thighs, and when Dean turns his head, it seems like Cas wants to say something, but all that comes out of his mouth is a long moan, because Dean’s pumping him quick and dirty—it works for himself, and it seems to be working just fine for Cas, too. Dean rolls his hips involuntarily, his hard-on pressing into the small of Cas’s back, and Cas’s breath hitches in his chest.

Dean brings his free hand down to cup Cas’s balls, which are wet with sweat and precome—Cas is _really_ wet, produces a hell of a lot more precome than Dean usually does, and Dean wonders if that’s normal. But he doesn’t linger much on that, because Cas whining when Dean gives his balls a light tug is so much more interesting.

“D-Dean—please—” Cas stammers, sitting up straighter and wriggling back against him, and Dean quickly puts his hand back on Cas’s stomach, holding him in place as he strips his dick faster, harder. But Dean’s grip around Cas’s middle doesn’t stop him from moving his hips, and somehow in all the shifting, the hard line of Dean’s cock ended up between Cas’s cheeks, and _shit_ , that feels good, good enough that Dean can’t stop himself from grinding up into it.

He gives up on trying to hold Cas still, his hand going back down to work Cas’s balls because this is _not_ about Dean getting off, no matter how convincing a case his dick is making right now.

But when his fingers brush Cas’s perineum, he’s surprised to find the skin there a little slick from the precome that’s slipped down past Cas’s balls, and he gets a little sidetracked, his fingers slipping just a little farther back until his index finger is circling that tight pucker of muscle. The choked-off gasp that the motion draws from Cas’s lips and the unsubtle way that Cas slides down, legs opening in invitation, prompts Dean to do it again, tracing Cas’s rim with one finger, and that’s never really done anything for Dean, but Cas seems sensitive enough, writhing and trying to push down for more.

Dean’s other hand finally remembers what it was doing and takes up stroking Cas’s cock again, and Cas lets out a strangled moan, unintelligible words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush. It seems like his body can’t decide whether it wants to thrust up or down, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything this hot before, in real life _or_ in porn.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Dean gets out, breathless at the sight before him.

Cas pushes down a little harder at just the right moment, and the tip of Dean’s finger slips inside him. For a second Dean feels unbelievable tightness around his finger, and then Cas is coming, hips thrusting jerkily as he spurts all over Dean’s hand and his own stomach. Dean works him through it, continuing to pump him until Cas bats at his hand, oversensitive.

And then Cas goes boneless against Dean, chest still heaving. Cas wraps his hand around Dean’s, totally unfazed by the jizz that’s getting all over his hand, and fuck, Dean knows what he’s gonna be jerking off to for the next—well, for a long time.

He is fully prepared to wait for Cas to come down before sending him off to bed where he’ll hopefully knock out, no problem, so he’s surprised when Cas starts trying to sit up straight before he’s even caught his breath yet.

“Dude, what’re you doing?” Dean asks, pulling him back against his chest.

“I should return the favor,” Cas answers, but he already sounds like he’s about ready to knock out—it makes sense, since Dean’s pretty sure he hasn’t been sleeping half as much as he needs to every night. Sure, Dean can operate just fine on four hours a night, but Dean’s been doing this his whole life. Cas is newly human, and he needs to let his body rest.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You can make it up to me next time,” Dean says without thinking, and shit— _next time?_ Since when did he and Cas ever agree that this wasn’t a one-time thing? What if Cas feels pressured into—

But Dean’s worries fade into nothing when Cas tilts his head toward him, tipping his chin up until he can press a few slow, sleepy kisses into Dean’s jaw.

Yeah, there’ll definitely be a next time.

Cas slides down to lie horizontally, one eye flicking open to look at Dean expectantly, so Dean wipes his hand on the sheets—gonna have to do laundry tomorrow—and joins him, pulling his pillow down too. Cas curls into his side when he’s settled, and he’s out like a light in less than a minute.

Dean knows that Cas isn’t all the way better, that he’s still got a ways to go, but at least Dean has some idea of how to help now, how to make him feel connected. And as a bonus, Dean thinks with an amused smile, he probably just discovered the best cure for insomnia ever.

* * *

When Sam gets back from his morning run, Dean’s leaning back in his chair with a bowl of cereal and milk in one hand, a spoon in the other, and a newspaper open in his lap.

“Where’s _my_ breakfast?” Sam asks teasingly, noting that the cereal box isn’t on the table.

“Get it yourself, bitch,” Dean responds without looking up.

Sam doesn’t even have it in him to be annoyed because thank _god_. It’s been a few weeks since Sam stopped using the incantation that Kevin gave him, and he feels— _human_ , again. And what’s even better is that Dean _believes_ him. Sure, he’d been a little skeptical the first couple o’ days, but they’re fine now, better than they’ve been in a long time, because Dean actually treats him like a normal person now.

Come to think of it, Dean’s a lot happier now than he was maybe two months back. He smiles more often, and his laughs have gone back to that obnoxious, boisterous laugh that used to piss Sam off so much—mostly because those laughs were usually at Sam’s expense. It’s a whole lot less annoying now, though, because Dean’s just as likely to laugh at Cas as he is at Sam.

Cas is in the kitchen when Sam gets there, and before Sam can speak, he says sharply, “ _Don’t_ talk to me.”

Sam just laughs, because Cas is probably the grumpiest bastard there is before he gets his first cup of the day. But he’s healthy now, and his face has lost that haunted look that had followed him for so long when he was still new to the bunker.

“It’s getting colder,” Sam comments as he pops two pieces of toast into the toaster and presses it on.

“That’s what happens in winter,” Cas grouses, filling a mug and starting to leave the room.

“Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Cas says, turning to fix a glare on Sam, and right—they’re not supposed to expect Cas to remember things before his first cup of the day.

“But you hate black coffee,” Sam says. He still remembers the hilarious face Cas had made the first time he’d tried it. He’d immediately proceeded to pour a ton of sugar into the cup. Dean had been horrified.

“Dean likes it like this,” Cas responds, taking a sip. He doesn’t even make a face, and Sam wonders how long it took him to get used to the bitterness—how long Cas and his brother have been sharing _coffee_ , of all things.

How did he not notice?

“Was that all?” Cas asks impatiently, brow pinched with annoyance.

“Kevin’s coffee,” Sam reminds him, grabbing a second mug and filling it from the pot.

Cas grunts and takes a sip from his own mug— _his and Dean’s_ mug—while he waits. As soon as he gets Kevin’s cup from Sam, he exits the room. Sam stares at the empty doorway for a while, thoughtful.

What else have Dean and Cas been sharing—what else has Sam missed? He flips back through his memories of the past months, and it all suddenly seems so obvious—Dean laughs harder and more often because of Cas. His smiles turn soft and fond whenever he’s looking at Cas. Hell, Sam’s almost positive he’s caught Dean’s hand lingering on Cas’s shoulder or arm, or even his waist one time.

And Cas has gotten a lot better too, more relaxed and easygoing—after coffee, of course. Sam had attributed the improvement to time, to him slowly getting used to being human, and while that’s still probably true to some extent, he’s almost certain now that Cas’s recovery had a lot to do with Dean.

How in the world did he never put it together?

Distracted, Sam reaches into the fridge to get out his tub of Greek yogurt and is surprised to find a small plate of freshly sliced peaches on top. Shaking his head, Sam takes the tub and the fruit out, grabbing a bowl to mix the two together.

Dean may have gotten a whole lot better about not looking at Sam as though he’s gonna drop dead any minute, may have developed a stronger, more involved relationship with Cas, but he’s still making sure that Sam is taken care of.

Some things never change, Sam thinks with a smile.

* * *

They’re all sitting in front of the TV, watching a movie that Dean insists is culturally significant. Castiel doesn’t care for it, and he doesn’t feel invested in the young boy’s quest for a BB gun.

His three current companions agreed on the movie, but they don’t seem to be paying much attention now. They’re all very full after dinner—Dean had cooked a very large meal, insisting that Christmas was the perfect excuse for them to stuff themselves—and Castiel’s almost certain that Kevin is falling asleep in his armchair. Sam had most of the eggnog, and he looks close to unconscious as well, reclining with his head on the armrest of the couch that is at right angles with the one that Dean and Castiel share.

Near the end of the movie, Dean casually puts an arm around his shoulders. Castiel looks at him sharply, because Dean hasn’t wanted to tell Sam or Kevin about their relationship, so touching has been strictly limited to the bedroom—Dean’s bedroom, technically, but Castiel may as well move over entirely, since he sleeps there far more often than he sleeps in his own bed.

Perhaps Dean supposes that Sam and Kevin are both distracted and sleepy, and they can get away with a little snuggling. But Dean is still watching the television intently, and Castiel senses that he’s a little _too_ interested in the movie. Why would he feel the need to feign interest?

Then Dean lifts the remote control and pauses the DVD, and it seems Castiel misjudged the sleepiness of Sam and Kevin, because they both immediately look toward Dean. Castiel opens his mouth to speak but decides against it—he does not care what Sam and Kevin think, but Dean clearly does, so he will allow Dean to tell them.

“Cas and I—we’re together,” Dean says without preamble, and his arm is stiff and tense where it rests over Castiel’s shoulders.

Kevin only squints at them, his expression difficult to read.

Meanwhile, Sam’s eyes go almost hilariously wide, and he says, “Really?”

Castiel is already doubting the sincerity of Sam’s response when Dean says with a sigh, “You knew, didn’t you? How long?”

Sam laughs lightly. “I don’t know. A while, I guess,” he answers. “We’re fine with it, y’know.”

“We’ve just been waiting for you to tell us,” Kevin adds, shrugging.

“Jesus, _you_ knew, too?” Dean says, and the tension has drained from his frame, only to be replaced by mild embarrassment. “Was it _that_ obvious?”

Sam and Kevin exchange glances, and Kevin responds, “Kinda, yeah.”

“Awesome,” Dean says sarcastically, and Sam and Kevin burst into laughter.

Castiel just smiles to himself and leans into Dean’s side, enjoying the warm glow that comes from being part of a family— _his_ family. “Merry Christmas, Dean,” he says, leaning up to kiss Dean’s lips because he’s allowed to do this here, now that Sam and Kevin already know.

Dean’s smiling, breathtaking as ever, when Castiel pulls back. “Merry Christmas, Cas,” he answers.

Sam and Kevin quiet down when Dean presses play, and when the movie is over, Castiel decides that it’s a good Christmas story, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with a kinda-sorta continuation [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1185315).


End file.
